


Horsing Around

by imaginary_golux



Category: Cadfael Chronicles - Ellis Peters
Genre: Centaurs, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:54:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29599308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginary_golux/pseuds/imaginary_golux
Summary: Yves and Olivier spend a day under an unusual but not altogether unpleasant curse.
Relationships: Olivier de Bretagne/Yves Hugonin
Kudos: 4
Collections: February Ficlet Challenge 2021: Apocalypse No





	Horsing Around

“This is…” Yves trails off, unable to find a word which might encompass the pure _oddness_ of this situation.

“I must confess myself also at a loss for words,” Olivier says ruefully, twisting around to look down at the elegant haunches of his new equine form. “I had thought centaurs to be a myth of the ancient, pagan lands, not…” He also trails off, and gestures mutely.

His new equine half is as black as his hair, and built like the swift Arabian horses which Yves has only ever seen the wealthiest knights riding. He’s about fifteen hands at the...lower shoulder, Yves supposes he’ll have to call it, which means his _human_ shoulders are now almost seven feet off the ground.

Yves himself is actually _taller_ than Olivier is, for a wonder. His own new equine parts are those of a proper destrier, at least seventeen hands at the lower shoulder, and a lovely deep brown to match his hair, with fluffy white feathering above his hooves. He’s got to be eight feet tall at least. He’s not used to being so high off the ground unless he’s on a horse, but then, he rather _is_ on a horse, in one sense at least.

“I do not think we can return to your uncle in this fashion,” Olivier says after a moment.

“No,” Yves says, wincing at the thought of what his uncle’s reaction to this oddness might be. “She _did_ say this would not last long?”

“One full day,” Olivier says, nodding. “This can be endured that long, I am sure.”

Yves takes a cautious step, finding maneuvering four legs to be a little more complicated than his usual two. Olivier matches him, and after a few rather wobbly moments they both manage to master their new appendages well enough to walk, at least. The hunting lodge where they have been staying is not terribly far away, and their bewildered horses follow them obediently enough. Getting the horses untacked and stabled is difficult - Yves has to bend _very_ far down to reach the saddle-buckles - but entirely manageable with patience.

Yves looks at Olivier once they’ve finished, noting the twigs in his long elegant tail and the mud spattered on his hocks, then glances back to see he is rather disheveled as well. And there is no way he will be able to pick his _own_ hooves. “I think,” he says slowly, and Olivier gives him an expectant look, “we will need to groom each other.”

“I think you may be correct, my gallant,” Olivier says, and brandishes the currycomb he is still holding. “Well then, do you come and stand where I can reach you, and I shall make you look as proud as any destrier ought.”

Yves laughs and obeys, and is promptly mortified at the groan which rises from his throat at the first strong stroke of the currycomb. Olivier stops in surprise. Yves covers his face with both hands. “It seems there is a reason horses are pleased to be groomed,” he mumbles.

“Ah,” Olivier says, and thank God does not say anything further, but sets to currying Yves’ flanks without apparently paying any attention to the noises Yves cannot quite stifle. He is thorough and gentle, as he is with his own horse, and Yves leans his human torso against a beam and lets himself relax into the pleasure of it.

He is extremely gratified, when it is his turn to groom Olivier, that the first stroke of the brush elicits a soft moan of pleasure just as involuntary as his own was. Olivier’s cheeks go faintly pink under the tan. “Ah, my gallant, I see your point entirely,” he says. Yves does him the courtesy of not calling attention to the sounds Olivier clearly does not mean to make, though he hoards them away in his memory all the same. It is not as though he will ever have any _other_ opportunity to cause Olivier to sound so very pleased.

He does indulge himself by taking the time to braid Olivier’s gorgeous tail - purely so that it will not catch against anything, nor acquire more twigs. That, at least, is the excuse he plans to use if Olivier asks, but by the grace of God, Olivier does not, choosing instead to lean against the beam and hum a ballad of which they are both fond until Yves is done and they can go in to see how difficult it is going to be to manage supper.

Olivier nearly brains himself on the doorway to the lodge, having forgotten how tall he is. Yves stifles a laugh at the indignant glare Olivier gives the lintel, and ducks down to avoid the same fate. The hunting lodge is not really built for anyone so tall as they have become, but the kitchen at least has a high-vaulted ceiling, and brick floors which will take no harm from their hooves.

They are both ravenous, and a haunch of venison which ought to have sustained them for three days vanishes in mere minutes. Olivier laughs softly. “I suppose we _are_ quite a lot larger than we were this morning.”

“I suppose we are,” Yves says, and then, slowly, “I have a great craving for oat porridge.”

Olivier frowns a little. “So too do I,” he says. “How surpassing odd. Well, we have oats in abundance.”

The oat porridge smells better than it has any right to do, and Yves finds himself pacing until it is finished. He and Olivier both eat more than either had guessed they would - the pot is scraped clean by the time they are done. Olivier eyes it thoughtfully. “I think perhaps we ought to fill that again before we sleep, that it might be ready in the morning.”

With the pot tucked against the side of the fireplace to stay warm through the night, they retreat to the bedchamber, and stand a while staring at the bed. “There may be a reason we do not make beds for our horses,” Olivier says at last.

“So there may,” Yves says ruefully.

“Let us put down a blanket to cushion the floor, at least,” Olivier decides, “and make each other’s flanks our bolsters.”

That works surprisingly well, and is surpassingly comfortable. Yves falls asleep with his head resting on his crossed arms atop Olivier’s haunches, oddly pleased by the weight of Olivier against his own side. They have shared a bed often ere now, but never before has Yves felt free to actually rest against his friend, sharing heat and comfort.

In the morning, they devour the oat porridge and an entire loaf of bread apiece - Yves has never before quite understood the saying ‘hungry as a horse’ so intimately - and let the horses out to graze, and then Olivier says, eyes alight with a sort of joyous mischief, “I shall never again have the opportunity to gallop across a field on my own four legs; wilt join me, my gallant?”

Yves grins. He’s fairly sure he’s mastered his new form - a gallop sounds delightful.

It is, in fact, delightful. Olivier is lighter and faster, flanks gleaming in the sunlight as he stretches out to leap over a hedge; Yves can’t catch him, but he does feel like he could run _forever_ , the strength and stamina of this form seemingly endless.

They halt at last in the shade of a little copse of trees, and Yves whoops with uncontainable glee. “This may have been intended as a curse, but oh, I cannot consider this day aught but a gift!”

“I must agree, my gallant,” Olivier says, beaming. His hair is thoroughly disheveled by the wind, and his cheeks are pink with exertion. Yves wants suddenly and rather desperately to kiss him. It’s a familiar feeling, only enhanced by the obvious joy in Olivier’s bright smile.

He doesn’t, of course.

They canter back up to the lodge side by side, moving at an easy lope Yves thinks he could keep up for days. They’re both ravenous by the time they get there - Yves actually finds himself eyeing the _hay_ speculatively - and by the time they’ve sated their appetites, there are no apples left in the sack that was hanging on the kitchen wall, no bread in the cupboard, and another pot of oat porridge utterly demolished.

“It is as well this will be a short curse,” Olivier observes. “We shall eat ourselves out of house and home otherwise!”

“Had we no supplies, I suspect I would have tried to eat grass,” Yves admits. “Perhaps it is that which makes this a curse.”

“Perhaps it is,” Olivier agrees, and yawns. “Ah! I understand much better the equine habit of standing about dozing in the sunshine.”

“There is no reason we could not do so,” Yves says, and Olivier nods. There’s a lovely grassy patch outside the lodge, where the sun has made the ground as warm as a hearthstone, and Olivier folds his legs and lies down with a sigh. Yves joins him, head to tail as they were last night, and cushions his head on Olivier’s haunches, humming contentedly as Olivier does the same on his own flank.

He wakes up in Olivier’s arms, wholly human once more. Olivier stirs only a moment later, and smiles like sunrise as he wakes, golden eyes glowing in the light of the setting sun. “There now, my gallant,” he says softly. “We _have_ had an adventure.”

“We have,” Yves agrees. “And - I am glad to have had it with _you_ , and no other.”

“Even so,” Olivier agrees, and stands, offering Yves a hand up. “Curse or no, this is a memory I shall cherish.” There’s something in his expression Yves can’t quite identify - a sort of quiet joy, perhaps.

“So shall I,” Yves says, and they go in to make a dinner fit for mere humans, hands still clasped.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the FFC prompt "Horsemen," and beta'd by my wonderful Best Beloved, Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw.


End file.
